


Silk Stockings (Say My Name)

by Parrannnah



Category: Original Work
Genre: (implied) - Freeform, A Love Letter to Summer Affairs, Based on Real Events, Car Sex, Classic Cars, F/M, Greasers, Lingerie, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on Tumblr, Sex in a Car, Stockings, Stolen Moments, Summer Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-14 06:42:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14130336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parrannnah/pseuds/Parrannnah
Summary: Based on True Events. Exactly what it says on the tin. Originally posted on Tumblr. Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.





	Silk Stockings (Say My Name)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on True Events. Exactly what it says on the tin. Originally posted on Tumblr. Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

One summer, I ran into a crush from high school. He was home from college and had come into where I worked. I remembered him—he was very memorable, being 6’11” with sandy blonde hair and eyes that couldn’t decide if they were green or not some days, but I hadn’t seen him since I was 16, blonde and very unsure of myself. I was now 21, with red hair and a wealth of self-confidence. I was minding my own business, just doing my job when he came up to me, asking if I could help him find some jeans. I turned around, eyes wide as I took in all the changes.

No longer the lanky, long-haired water polo player of my youth. He stood before me broad shouldered and wonderfully muscled, in cuffed jeans, black converse, and a Jack Daniels shirt, with sideburns and a wonderful pompadour. Big green-hazel eyes opened wide and I blushed, something that had not changed since high school.

 **He said my name** , questioningly. I was dumbfounded, unable to think why he remembered me. Luckily my brain was on autopilot, being smooth and snarky all at the same time. I jumped back into the conversation, catching up with him as we found him some jeans. He was playing baseball in Illinois, waiting to graduate and get into the minors so he could be in MLB. Add another check on my “hottest things a man could tell me” list.

We flirted shamelessly; I succeeded in evening the score and making him blush at my not so subtle ogling of his ass as he came out in the jeans he was trying on. He bought them. He smiled, said he hoped to see me around and left.

I got off work a few hours later, went home and showered. I was due at a barbeque at an old friend’s house in a few hours so I made some cookies, ironed the cuffs into my Levi’s, and finished getting ready. I threw on my Chuck’s and walked out the door, cookies in hand and a smiling greaser running laps in my head.

He’d been at the barbeque, which I should have figured since it was through this friend we’d met back in high school. I had pretty much made up my mind that if I was only going to see him this once, I was going to do what high-school me had always wanted but never dared to do. I checked “in a classic car” off my list, that night: he had a 1958 Mercury Medalist he’d built at the house and needed to switch cars before we went downtown to the bars because it was a cop magnet and he didn’t feel like running the risk since everyone was home from school and the bars would be full of reminiscing and chemistry tonight.

I went with him and kissed him when he met my eyes after blushing while staring at my lips. He sighed as our lips met and made me forget to be nervous, hands wrapped in my hair, cradling my face, gripping my hips, caressing my skin. It was far from sweet, and if this was going to be the only time, I was OK with that—he showed me the strength he usually kept restrained and I showed him that sometimes ironclad control is overrated. We were a tangled mess at the end, slick skin a soft soundtrack to our whispered words of want, gratitude and that shared intimacy you can’t help but have after someone has seen you at your most vulnerable moment of surrender, when control is overcome by passion and ecstasy.

Knowing men as I do, I kept it light and easy the rest of the night, our friends gently teasing as we showed up with blissful smiles and eyes full of fire. I ordered my own drinks, talked to everyone and played pool, all the while keeping a mental eye on his demeanor. He seemed happy that I wasn’t suddenly acting like a girlfriend—some men under the impression that women didn’t or couldn't consider sex and love things that could be separated, but I wasn’t looking for anything more than a little mutual satisfaction. The ball was in his court and if he wanted to keep it I was happy to let him. 

A while later, he wanted to dance. First it was easy, friendly—slowly it grew to something more than friendly but less than romantic. He held me a little tighter, danced a little slower and looked at me a little longer. It was as sweet and innocent as going to a soda shop, the only give away that we were anywhere but 1952 were the tattoos on his arms and the heat in his eyes. He took me back to my car later, setting me on the hood and kissing me deeply, the strength restrained again and I let him keep it—stealing it away wouldn’t seem fair after he had given it freely last time. He asked me to let him know when I was safely home, using it as an excuse to give me his phone number before I could ask.

I let him know. He let me know his shirt had stolen the scent of me and that he didn’t mind.

A few weeks later we were still talking, sporadically but consistently. He was playing in a summer league in LA and we chatted when we both were free, no pressure involved to keep the conversation flowing through all hours of the day and night. We were there when the other wanted to talk and that’s what was important. We talked about all things, but music led us to a mutually enjoyable place and found we were both going to the same bar to see the same band. This was the night I wore my back-seam stockings.

We laughed and danced, grazing against each other in an inquisitive way, testing the waters of our tentative friendship with potential, satisfied that the other was on the same page. We left together and drove into the hills, admiring the moonlight and each other. We sat in the back seat, naming constellations and speaking softly to each other, touching gently anywhere we could reach until we were silently naming parts of each other instead of the stars. My legs stretched out across his lap, his hand slid smoothly up from my ankle, taking his time and tracing his way up the seam as he groaned; I mapped his mouth with touches of lips and tongue. His fingers reached the end of their journey along the black seam, and slowly, gently, teased and traced the very tops where silk met skin, defining the line with nimble touches, his long fingers finding the garter straps and snapping them gently against my thighs.

“I love these,” he breathed, breaking away to imitate his fingers with his tongue, causing gasps and **his name** to fall reverently from my lips. Whether he meant the stockings, the tops of my thighs, or both, I’ll never know. His eyes shone as he watched me sigh and shiver at the feel of the warm exhalation of his words on my skin, wrapping me in his admiration and making me feel beautiful. He nuzzled, licked, stroked, and almost shattered me in the most wonderful way without ever laying a finger on the slick skin that ached for him the most.

He showed me that night, in the adoration of something as commonplace as that line of skin that met the silk, the things he was feeling in a way he would never say out loud. That night, unlike the first, was sweet and gentle, calloused hands exploring soft skin tenderly, reverently. I gave his sweetness back to him, with soft touches and gentle handling, murmured words falling between us and filling the spaces we may never fill in the waking hours of whatever this was between us. As we raced towards the end, we sang each other’s praises, wonder and longing in every syllable, something more in all the spaces between. As we fell over the edge, my name fell from his lips over and over, as one would say a litany, a prayer, each time sweeter than the last. He is the only one to ever use it at that moment of surrender.

My stockings, lovingly rolled down to reveal inch after inch of my legs, kisses welcoming the skin back to the sweet summer air from its confinement in silk, had gotten a run in them. He was pleased, because now they belonged forever to him, unable to be seen or possibly worshiped by another. As if anyone ever could.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m now on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/KatAtomic2/)  
> Things are weird and wonderful over on Fandom Twitter so come hang out!


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